


arms tonite

by polkaprintpjs



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, eventual cywhirlgate content, guess who's a ghost? its whirl, will be tagged as such then
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:34:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26188063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkaprintpjs/pseuds/polkaprintpjs
Summary: Whirl stares at the ceiling, static making the tiles warp strangely.He doesn’t bother to try to vent. He thinks about the not-him in medbay, then decides not to think about it at all.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	arms tonite

Whirl stares at the ceiling, static making the tiles warp strangely. 

He vents one two  _ three _ and- shit, he can’t vent. Whirl shoves himself to sitting, tries to manually trigger his ventilation system. 

Nada. 

He’s not overheating, though, he notes distantly as he sends the command again and again. What the hell? He takes a minute to get his helm straight, get his bearings. 

Weird, his frame doesn’t hurt. He’s hurt since Empurata, aches of a foreign frame that’s persisted through repairs and reformats and the whole damn war. Now, though, his frame is- not comfortable, but. Neutral? 

He stands, glances around. He’s in medbay. A door on the far wall slides open and Ratchet walks through, First Aid right behind. 

“So, docbot, I free to leave or what?” Whirl drawls, cocking a hip and making a show of crossing his arms under his cockpit. 

They ignore him, which,  _ rude _ , and walk past. Whirl stares at the door for a minute. 

Had they been surrounded with  _ halos _ ? Ratchet’s was a weird pinky-blue, and Aid’s looked sickly green. 

...Interesting. He spins to follow.

“Hello, I said-  _ what the fuck _ ?” 

He’s looking at himself, greyed frame arranged neatly on the medberth. Cause of death is a shredded main energon line, he files away. 

He can’t move, the dissonance is overwhelming. 

He’s here, why is he there? 

It doesn’t make  _ sense _ , why is he there, why- 

Whirl stares at the ceiling, static making the tiles warp strangely. 

He doesn’t bother to try to vent. He thinks about the not-him in medbay, then decides not to think about it at all. 

Whirl stands and looks around. He’s in the oil reservoir, now. Cool. He tries his comm, gets static. Okay. Whirl starts walking, heads to the door. He’ll figure it out as he goes. 

The door is an issue- for some reason, it doesn’t seem to register his presence or the codes he inputs. He runs through Tailgate’s to Swerve’s all the way to Rodimus’s code; nothing. 

That’s just fine, though; Wreckers aren’t exactly known for being gentle or relying on passcodes, now are they? The door yields under his claws, then bounces back to its original, undamaged state. 

Frustrated, Whirl tries again. 

And again. 

Punching, kicking, yanking, shoving, none of it works; and he can’t even try his guns, is the kicker, because they just plain refuse to online. He’s pretty sure it has something to do with the whole ‘not venting’ thing he’s got going on, which doesn’t fucking  _ matter _ as long as he’s stuck in here. 

_ Vents _ . 

Now  _ that _ is an idea. Most of the vents are high up on the wall, so it’s a good thing he’s one big ‘copter, isn’t it? 

Whirl stares at the ceiling, static making the tiles warp strangely. 

The orangish blob just to the right of his direct line of sight is familiar; storage room 32b. He’d know this ceiling anywhere, he thinks nostalgically. Swerve hadn’t been happy at the loss of his stock but hey, such was life. Sucks to be him. 

Whirl props himself up on his elbows and squints as the door cycles open. Swerve himself walks in, scrolling through a datapad. Whirl tips his helm to the side, doesn’t bother to try and catch his attention (a leering approximation of a wolf whistle doesn’t count.). 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out, alright? His frame is grey in the medbay and he can’t interact with technology. Not a lot of alternative suggestions, here. 

Swerve’s plating clatters as he flares and resettles it, mutters something about broken temperature controls. The halo around him is orange, which clashes something  _ awful _ with his paint job- not to be too mean to the little guy, but Swerve’s no Rodimus. 

Whirl hops up and trots over, shadows his steps as the bartender double checks a spreadsheet against the shelves. Ugh, inventory. Yeah, Whirl isn’t sorry to be dead considering this was due to be his shift next cycle- waitaminute. 

What time was it? 

What  _ cycle _ was it? 

His chrono isn’t helpful, flickering madly on 1256. Fantastic. That’s not even a recognized Cybertronian standard of time! 

Whatever. 

He cranes his neck over Swerve, leans down to read the cycle and time on the datapad. Oh. Huh. He’s been  _ gone _ a few cycles, hasn’t he. 

Swerve is completing his, Whirl’s, duty shift right now, humming absently between shivers. Whirl’s still mulling the lost time over when he abruptly bumps into Swerve, who’s not walking anymore.  _ Into _ being the operative word, here, because his knee and part of his thigh sink through Swerve’s shoulder before he registers the stop. 

He doesn’t even have time to stop before the pain hits, burning and he wrenches himself back even as Swerve lurches forward, howling. 

When his optic clears, Swerve is sitting on the floor, wheezing. 

“What… the hell?” 

Whirl resets his vocalizer. Swerve won’t be able to  _ hear _ him, obviously, but he still wants to be free of the staticky hum of pain in his throat. Except Swerve stiffens, scrambles upright, his visor washing pale blue. 

“Who’s there? I can hear you! That wasn’t funny, and you’re getting one nanosec before I comm Ultra Magnus to deal with you!” 

Whirl perks  _ right _ up. 

“Oh c’mon, bud,  _ please _ call Ultra Magnus, this’ll be  _ hilarious _ .” 

Swerve, if possible, freaks out  _ even more _ . 

“ _ Whirl _ ?” 

Wow, and here he’d thought only Stormy got that screechy. 

Wait. 

“Wait. You can hear me?” 

Swerve was quiet for a minute- now there’s a first- then plopped his aft down right there. 

“I’m comming Drift,” he said shakily. “This is right down his alley, he’ll know exactly what to do.” Whirl is delighted by this idea, clicks his claws one-two one-two. 

“Yes. Absolutely. Call Drift,  _ right now _ , he’ll  _ hate _ this.” 

Swerve isn’t paying attention, his halo- his field, Whirl’s pretty sure- a greenish yellow. 

“Drift, I need you in my storage room. Yes, it’s important- look, I’m sorry you’re off duty, this is something I really need you for. You are? Okay great. Uh, hurry?” His comm clicks off and he eyes Whirl warily. 

Or, well, he  _ tries _ ; Whirl’d shifted a bit, so now he’s just squinting a foot to the left. Heh. 

“Awful nice of you to take my shift,” Whirl comments airily. 

Swerve’s visor snaps to where he’s standing. 

“Quick question, short stuff. How’d I bite it, huh? Punt the bucket, join the Well, grey out? Eh?” Swerve doesn’t answer for a solid 12 nanosecs- Whirl’s counting- and his visor gets paler with every single one. 

“Pretty s-sure I’m not supposed to piss off a ghost. That’s pretty much rule number one of movie nights, remember, don’t piss off ghosts. Or well, maybe you don’t remember, ghost’s aren’t that great at remembering-“ 

Whirl’s honestly contemplating poking him and risking that  _ pain _ again just to cut off the word purge when the door slides back open. Drift walks through, pauses as Swerve cuts himself off and scrambles up. The door hisses as it cycles shut. 

“Okay,” he says, slowly, eyeing Swerve after a quick once-over of the room. “So,  _ what’s _ the issue?” 

Swerve’s head swings from where he’d last tracked Whirl as standing to Drift then back again. “What do you _mean_ , ‘what’s the issue’? He’s _right_ _there_!” 

Drift looks to where he’d gestured- flailed, really- and  _ doesn’t _ look convinced. 

“Right. I really don’t have time for this, is there something you actually need?” 

Whirl and Swerve stare at Drift, dumbfounded. 

“He can’t see me,” Whirl realizes. “What the  _ hell _ , he can’t see me! What kinda New Age, Spiritualist slag-“ 

Swerve flails again- Whirl just  _ knows _ it wasn’t to shut him up, that’d be  _ rude _ \- and vents deep before trying again. 

“Whirl is  _ right there _ , Drift. You really can’t see him?” 

Drift’s face turns angry for an instant, before he smoothes it over, takes a step forward. 

“I don’t know why you think this is funny or in any way acceptable, but-“ 

Whirl steps in to close the gap, cockpit brushing Drift’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, okay, fake hippy, OW MOTHER _ FUCK- _ “ 

Whirl’s optic clears and Drift is staggering back upright, turning furious optics on Swerve, who’s all the way back against the far wall. 

“Cool it, yeah?” He grumbles, staying on the ground.  _ Shit _ but that hurt. 

Drift goes very, very still. 

Whirl rolls his shoulders, metal grating against the floor. 

“What, you can hear me now, too?” He sits up, squints at nothing. “I haveta deal with  _ that _ every time I want to talk to somebody?” 

Drift moves, then, just turns on a heel and makes for the door. 

Ohhhhkay then. 

“Never took you for a coward!” Whirl yells after him. 

What, the guy’s too damn spiritual to deal with a bona fide, certified ghost? 

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr @megatronismegagone  
> drift aint paid enough to deal with a ghostly whirl right now (also personally i hc the spiritualism is mostly his way of keeping con/dead end culture and also keeping people off his back)(bc rlly whos threatened by hippies)(yeah hes got swords but still)


End file.
